Is There Still Sex in the City?

by Candace Bushnell

  “We have a problem.” He paused. “You need to come inside.”

  The atmosphere in the shop wasn’t right. The boy was standing in the corner, shoulders slumped as if he wanted to disappear.

  Poor kid. It turned out he didn’t know how to ride a bike after all. And he didn’t want to tell his father because he didn’t want to disappoint him.

  It was all heartbreakingly sad, but it also meant I’d have to drive Max and the boy everywhere and that wasn’t part of the plan. I needed to fix this.

  “Maybe he can learn to ride a bike,” I suggested.

  I pointed out what a terrific opportunity it was, given the fact that my house was ideally located to learn this life-­altering skill. There was a park across the street and a cul-de-sac behind my house. The nearby firehouse had a huge parking lot with enough space for practicing turns. I’d practiced there myself at the beginning of the summer.

  “Deddy?” the boy said, star struck by the idea. “Will you teach me to ride a bike?”

  “Of course I will, son,” Max replied.

  Success.

  Or not. Apparently nothing is simple when you’re a parent trying to do things for your kid. The bike shop didn’t sell bikes with training wheels, so we had to order it online. This ate up more time and I was beginning to get anxious about neglecting the other parts of my life. The parts that didn’t include Max and the boy. I told Max that I absolutely had to get some work done tomorrow morning and that he had to figure out something to do so I could have three hours alone.

  “Fine,” Max said, rolling his eyes.

  “Please Max. I’m not being rude. I love having you guys. It’s just that I’ve got to work.”

  “You always have to work,” he said accusingly, as if this might be the reason we’d broken up fifteen years ago.

  I tried to hold my tongue. The thought of writing gave me a sickening helpless feeling, similar to how one feels when a pet is ill. I was on a deadline for a book that wasn’t working, which meant I had to somehow work even harder.

  And I needed the money.

  I didn’t want to tell Max, but the house wasn’t renovated because I couldn’t afford it. At the rate things were going, I might never be able to afford it.

  And I certainly wasn’t going to tell Max that I had visions of myself in this same unrenovated house thirty years from now alone and wearing these same old clothes—and that was the good version.

  Nevertheless, I still felt guilty.

  Day Six

  The bike with the training wheels arrived!

  The people at the bike shop magically put the bike together, and within about three minutes, with no help from his father, the boy was pedaling around the parking lot.

  And the smile on his face. I could say it stretched from ear to ear, but it was more than that. It was the smile that makes it all worth it. All the mess, the fuss, the inconvenience of having to feed, clothe, entertain, shepherd, and most of all think obsessively about a small person. When you see the look of joy on a kid’s face that tells you that they get it—there’s nothing like it.

  You know you’ve lived.

  And then, like a real parent, I ran back to the car, grabbed my cell phone, and began recording the momentous event.

  Day Seven

  They say that having children makes you a better person, and, just as I’d hoped, this was happening to Max.

  Seeing that his son was a fast learner, Max became determined that the boy would master a number of skills. He would learn how to fish, play tennis, make new friends, and improve his reading level by a grade.

  And to prove it, Max and the boy went into the Village on their bikes. They returned with all the Roald Dahl books and also scissors and some construction paper for a diorama. And then—bless them—they took everything out to the barn.

  A half hour passed and suddenly the house felt empty. Curious, I went out to see what they were doing and to perhaps offer suggestions.

  They shooed me away.

  They didn’t need me.

  And this, I realized, is one of the realities of not having kids. No one needs you. Sure, your dog and your friends need you, but it’s not quite the same.

  And taking it one step further, when you die, who is going to be bummed out about it? Yes, your friends will be sad but not for that long. And while friends are usually happy to go to your funeral, they don’t necessarily want to have to plan it. And finally, who are you going to leave your IRA to?

  Assuming you’re lucky enough to have an IRA.

  That night, as I got ready for bed, I thought about Max and how he suddenly had a purpose in life: his son.

  As I closed my eyes, I wondered if I’d missed out.

  So the next morning, when Max started talking about his plans and how much fun they were having and how great it would be if he and his son could stay an extra few days, I readily agreed.

  Day Ten

  “Hey buddy, move it,” I snarled under my breath at the slow moving vehicle ahead of me. Why oh why was I in the car again?

  I was in the car because it was good for the kid. He was going to sports camp on the grounds of the local private school, and since it was too far to bike, I was driving him. And Max.

  The boy was no trouble. Max was another story. He wouldn’t stop talking about this stupid Burner wedding he was going to in California and how he needed to dress up like a polar bear but still hadn’t ordered the costume from Amazon.

  I took a deep breath and looked over to where the summer school kids were starting their day. Sometimes they released balloons; sometimes they wore masks. Today they were playing musical instruments. The banners that hung from the tall glass windows inside the school were a happy purple, green, and orange.

  The kids and the few adults were cheerful, clapping their hands.

  “Why are they always so happy?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Max said.

  “Yeah,” the kid said. “Deddy, why are they so happy?”

  In contrast to those parents and their charges, Max and I were wrecks. Max had taken to wearing barefoot running shoes and the same T-shirt he slept in. I was no better in food-stained shorts and a baggy overwashed fishing shirt.

  It was just easier this way.

  Gone were the pleasures of the unmarried, middle-aged housewife: The peaceful moments contemplating the greens at the farm stand. Strolling with the dogs at Havens Beach and finding the perfect, shiny orange toenail shell. Getting stoned and dancing to pop music. In short, doing all the mindful, healthy—conscious things middle-aged people are supposed to do to live for another thirty years. The assumption being that one actually has the time to dedicate to raising oneself, as opposed to raising actual children.

  Now I woke up with a list as long as my arm of things that needed to be done, bought, fixed, or cleaned up.

  But my biggest concern was the boy.

  Despite the fact that the boy and I were not close and hardly spoke and I’m pretty sure the kid didn’t even like me very much, I had to keep him safe. But most of all, I had to make sure he was happy.

  Somehow, I had developed what I call mommy brain.

  For instance, two days ago, when we were picking up the boy from the dock where he’d spent another morning at fishing camp, I suddenly found myself studying the other children. Did they like him? Were they interacting with him? Or was he all alone?

  Oh my god. Did he have any friends?

  The boy, I noticed, seemed different from the other kids. It wasn’t just that he was skinnier. He had a different sensibility that made him appear less civilized. Maybe this was just due to the fact that his father was washing his clothes. They had those deep wrinkles that come from sitting overnight in the dryer.

  But so what I thought, as I once again assessed the other children. At least the boy was smart.

  And
a fast learner. He’d learned how to ride a bike, play tennis, paddleboard, sectione, and fish. If we were a family living in the wild, having the boy would come in handy. Not a day goes by when that kid doesn’t come home from fishing camp with at least two fish to feed his “parents.”

  Please tell me how many kids can do that?

  Day Twelve

  Several packages arrived. Max cut them open and began removing the peanut packing materials, placing them in a large, heavy salad bowl. It wasn’t what I would have used, but I did not point this out. Instead, I remembered how considerate the father was being and he was teaching his son. I reminded myself that I was having a happy family experience by osmosis and that hopefully my life would not fall apart because I didn’t meet my deadline and I was getting closer and closer to penury.

  I leaned in as Max pulled out one of his purchases and unwrapped it. He held it up. “Look son,” he said. “A bonsai tree.”

  “What’s a bonsai tree?” the boy asked.

  “The bonsai is like a dwarf tree. You know how there are dwarf people? The bonsai is like the same thing but a tree,” the father said. Not the words I would have chosen but I’ve learned not to criticize Max in front of the boy. If I say anything remotely critical about Max, the boy gets upset.

  Yesterday, when I was washing a dirty roasting pan and Max was dousing cut-up plums and peaches with alcohol, I made the mistake of calling him weird. The boy immediately became defensive and motioned for me to step outside.

  “What’s up, kid?” I asked.

  “Don’t you say anything wrong about my deddy. My deddy is not weird.”

  “Is weird a bad thing? I think weird is a good thing,” I replied.

  The boy looked at me suspiciously. “How would you describe my deddy?”

  I immediately suspected this was a trick question. “Well, he travels a lot, so I guess he’s like James Bond.”

  No response. Then: “Is Deddy a nerd?”

  “I guess you could say he’s a bit of a nerd.”

  “Is being a nerd a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked.

  “It’s a good thing,” I tried to reassure him.

  “Then why didn’t you say my deddy was a nerd instead of weird?” he demanded.

  The kid had got me.

  While Max and the boy went through the boxes, I picked up a colored pencil and a pad of paper and began drawing pictures of my poodles. The boy, bored, came over to see what I was doing. Then he started drawing a camel.

  The house was quiet save for the sound of our pencils on paper.

  This was nice I realized. It was nice to sit quietly in the living room drawing.

  If I had a kid, would I try to improve my drawing skills again, I wondered. I crumpled up the poodles and attempted a horse head instead.

  As I drew, I wondered what it would be like if me, Max, and the boy spent more time like this together. And what did the boy’s mother really think about the situation? After all, I was Max’s ex-girlfriend. Did she worry that Max and I might get back together and then we’d raise the child instead?

  “Is she pretty?” I’d asked Max.

  “Who?”

  “His mother.”

  Max shrugged. “She’s pretty in that Icelandic way. They’re all pretty.”

  I got her last name out of him and found a few images of her online. She was, of course, stunningly beautiful.

  I picked up a new piece of paper and attempted a sketch of the kid’s profile.

  He leaned over to see what I was drawing. “Is that supposed to be me?” he said, affronted. “You made the nose too big.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” I admitted. “I didn’t get the proportions exactly right, okay?”

  The kid sighed. I sighed. I went back into my office and the kid went back to his father, probably to complain about me.

  Day Fourteen

  A huge thunderstorm from the night before left the campground soaked. It also flooded the barn, which meant I had to manually sweep out the water with an array of brooms.

  It was one of those unavoidable tasks that for some reason only I could do.

  The males would have to deal with their tents.

  Having completed my task, I headed back to the house.

  Surprise! Max made us delicious BLT sandwiches, including a couple of extra sandwiches for later. He really was turning out to be a great dad. While we ate, we talked about the storm the night before. Max tried to explain to his son how electricity worked.

  I smiled. Max offered to clean up the kitchen so I could write.

  I had peace for ten minutes.

  “Come quick!” Max shouted.

  “What?” I gasped and, in a panic, hurried out of the house after him. “What is it?”

  Max peeled back the flap on the tent.

  I peeked inside. The tent wasn’t waterproof and was now strewn with wet clothes. Meaning a morning’s worth of laundry.

  “Okay guys!” I said, trying to inspire them in my determined-­to-be-cheerful coaching voice. “Why don’t you take out all your clothes and carry them to the porch and then I can get started washing them.”

  Max glared. He informed me that he was going to use this as a teachable moment about lightning and wet tent safety and I should go away.

  Thirty minutes later, I went back out to check on them. They’d done nothing. I didn’t know what they had been doing, but it wasn’t taking their wet clothes to the porch.

  “Hey,” I said. “Can you guys get to it?”

  Max suddenly had a hissy fit. “I wasn’t aware that you were running this place like a factory. I was in the middle of discussing something with my son.”

  “And that would be fine,” I retorted. “If I didn’t potentially have four loads of laundry ahead of me.”

  I stormed back to my office, furious.

  Kids and men have many common traits. Such as: Starting a project and not finishing it. Leaving messes for other people to clean up. Not understanding “messes” or what constitutes one.

  And all of this is probably okay, unless you are playing the caretaking role in the relationship. Which means you are mothering, you are cleaning up, you are silent, you are putting others first along with their needs, even if—and especially if—their “needs” require that you spend less time on your needs.

  In other words, you have volunteered to make yourself a second-class citizen. Meaning: A person whom no one ever thanks. Who does the really hard stuff. And who is little appreciated. Women, as far as I’m concerned, should take away Mother’s Day from the male-run hearts-and-flowers companies that make millions on our sympathies and put it back in the hands of the actual mothers. Who could use some actual help.

  Five minutes later, after mentally cursing Max, he brought in a pile of wet laundry and helped me load it into the washer.

  I reminded myself to take a deep breath. Everything was going to be fine.

  On my way back to work, I saw that Max had left the extra sandwich on the table. I stole a little piece of bacon and thought that perhaps this would be a good day after all.

  I had peace for three minutes.

  “Oh no,” Max shouted.

  “What?” I said, rushing out.

  “Your dog ate my sandwich!”

  Day Fifteen

  Was it really the end of the month? How had so much time passed? And so much emotion?

  At 2:00 p.m. on a sunny Sunday afternoon, Max and I were perched gingerly on the edge of a high bleacher, waiting for the boy to get an award from the sports camp. I could tell the other parents were old hands at this, this game watching. They sat in the middle of the bleachers in a huddle, and they knew not just their own kid’s name but the names of the other kids as well. If I’d had kids, I suppose this would have been my life, too—sitting around green spaces wearing baseball caps and being
part of a family. The parents all seemed very nice—there’s something about kids that makes most adults behave—but they were also at least a decade younger than Max and me, with faces that still had that hopeful glow that all this was going to make sense someday.

  Me and Max, we stood out.

  We didn’t know where to sit. Or what to do.

  Not being an actual parent, I assumed the real parents didn’t have this problem. I envied the fact that their lives had a pattern. Predictable, perhaps, but also comforting. Because when you have kids, you know what you’re supposed to do with your life. You know what’s supposed to happen and when.

  If you’re childless and single, you don’t have the pattern. You don’t know how it’s supposed to go down. And so, while I was waiting for the coach to call the boy’s name, I was a nervous wreck.

  What if he calls the boy’s name last? What if he forgets and doesn’t call his name at all? And what if he runs out of trophies before he gets to the boy? My heart would break.

  I think I need to have words with that coach. I think I need to give him a little pop on the snout.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  “Hey,” Max nudged me. “Aren’t you going to take a video?”

  Day Seventeen

  The boy and his father left on a Tuesday in a beat-up gray van driven by a local taxi guy. It crossed my mind that the van might not make it to NYC, but as usual I was the only person worried about this.

  In any case, there was no choice. They needed space for the bike and the tents, and the finished diorama, which Max and the boy cleverly nestled into a cardboard box.

  They loaded the van and shut the doors. From the stoop, I watched as the van backed cautiously down the driveway. I waved, but I didn’t linger.

  I went straight to my computer where I watched the video I made for the boy.

  The video was a revelation. The vacation appeared to be everything Max and I had hoped for. The backyard looked like a real campsite, with two tents and two charcoal grills and a badminton net. There was the boy learning to paddleboard on the bay in front of Kitty’s house with one of the poodles. And there he was in the harbor, having just gotten off the fishing boat, displaying the two large fish he caught. And finally, he’s walking along the side of the playing field to take his trophy from soccer camp.